


In Bloom

by Sp00py



Series: A Study in Snuffering [5]
Category: Mumintroll | Moomins Series - Tove Jansson
Genre: Evisceration, Incest, Other, Torture, Vomit, bear trap, new and inventive ways to have sex, terrible, vague talk of child torture
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-04-09
Updated: 2018-04-09
Packaged: 2019-04-20 18:09:34
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,449
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14266695
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sp00py/pseuds/Sp00py
Summary: Sometimes signs are best left alone.





	In Bloom

The sign was oddly placed, to say the least. Snufkin ignored it initially, but his curiosity and the itch to pull it up was too strong. He circled back around a day after passing it, and set his pack down to investigate further, half expecting it to be some mirage. It stood sentry in the middle of the forest, under a staid oak tree which had starved out all the life in the underbrush beneath it. A single beam of late summer sun fell across the sign.

NO ADMITTANCE it said. No admittance where, Snufkin didn't know. This was a forest with no gates or locks. But it raised his hackles to be told that, regardless. He went where he pleased. And right now he wanted to go right over to that sign and yank it up.

So he did.

A trap snapped around his leg just in front of it. Snufkin shrieked and dropped to the ground.

Somebody fell out of the oak with a pained thud.

Snufkin’s breath came short and sharp, and he had to choke down his panic as he examined the bear trap he’d been caught in. Blood was staining his trouser leg around where the teeth had torn through, and he swallowed another cry as he shifted. Something under his skin ground together.

His fingers hovered over the trap, not sure where to begin freeing himself. He knew how they worked, but it was hard to remember when one had just shattered his shin.

Someone had… someone had fallen. “H-hello?” Snufkin called out. A shadow fell over him.

"Hello,” the Joxter said, brushing off dead leaves and twigs as he knelt in front of Snufkin. He studied the trap but made no move to help. “It’s been so long, Snufkin.”

Snufkin took a deep breath. “I seem… I seem to be caught in a trap.”

“I noticed. That’s my trap, in fact. And of all the Snufkins I could have caught. What fun.”

The shock was fading, and while the pain only throbbed more vibrantly, Snufkin could adjust to it. “Could you free me?”

“I’m afraid not, my dear. I don’t think I’ll catch another Snufkin even if I waited a month.”

Snufkin, who had been mostly intent on getting his help, finally noticed the Joxter wasn’t saying things that were appropriate to this situation. “Catch what?”

“A Snufkin, in my Snufkin trap.”

Snufkin wasn’t sure what to say to that, so said nothing. He turned his attention back to the bear trap, looking for some way to loosen it. He’d heard stories of people having to dismember themselves to escape and was quite opposed to the method if there was a better one to be found. The Joxter looked down too as Snufkin fumbled through the blood, fingers unsteady, and covered his hands with his own.

“Excuse me.”

“No.”

Snufkin looked back up at the Joxter. It seemed he wanted Snufkin’s attention, so he would have it, if it got Snufkin free. The pain was hot and widespread, running up his leg to his stomach. He wanted it gone, but he could tolerate it a few moments more. “Did you say Snufkin trap?”

“I did.”

“Why did you make a Snufkin trap?”

“To catch Snufkins,” the Joxter said with an infuriating grin. Snufkin wasn’t asking the right questions. He took a deep breath to clear his head. He didn’t want to play games, but it seemed the Joxter did.

“What are you going to do now that you’ve caught one?”

“Kill him.”

Snufkin jerked back, and acute pain nauseated him for a second. “What!”

“Why else does one set a trap if not to kill what one catches?”

“I’m a person.”

“Yes.”

“I’m your _son_.”

The Joxter gave a pleased little moan, whiskers trembling slightly. “I know. It’s better than I could have imagined.”

Snufkin squinted at the Joxter. This must be some morbid joke at his expense, taking advantage of this bizarre situation. “This… this isn’t funny, Joxter. Please help me out of this thing.”

“This isn’t a joke, Snufkin. I’m going to kill you. Slowly. Painfully. ” His fingers moved from Snufkin’s hands to his trapped leg, then dug in. Snufkin cried out and reflexively punched at the Joxter. Almost instantly, he went from prodding Snufkin’s leg to laying him out with a backhand across the face. The Joxter held him down as he thrashed.

“I never know if I like it when you Snufkins fight or prefer it when you don’t,” he said, voice breathless, an excited flush on his face. “I think today, though, I want some fight. It suits you, wild little thing that you are.”

Snufkin bit his arm.

The Joxter yanked back for just a half a moment, but that was enough for Snufkin to scratch at his face until he let his other arm go. He wasn’t going to be caught up in the baffling horror of the situation nor confused into inaction. This was just some stranger (and honestly, he didn’t even know the Joxter that well, clearly). Some stranger who wanted to kill him. Snufkin wasn’t going to just let that happen.

He shoved the Joxter off of him and kicked him with his free leg. He kicked him again for good measure. Snufkin’s other leg radiated a cold-hot pain. He couldn’t even think of trying to get free, yet, though.

The Joxter rolled away out of his kicking range and sat up, a hand to his face. Blood trickled down his chin. Snufkin tried to put some distance between them, but the trap’s chain was short. He slipped on dead leaves and hit the ground with a grunt.

“That’s a little too much fight,” the Joxter said calmly, though he sounded winded. He disappeared from sight, and Snufkin sat up, gaze panning frantically for him. He came back around the tree, some rope in hand.

Snufkin searched around for something to help fend off the Joxter, but he was on him faster than Snufkin could move.

“Get off me!” Snufkin hit at any part of the Joxter he could until the Joxter corralled his arms. He wrapped the rope around Snufkin’s wrists and tightened it enough to cut off his circulation. The Joxter climbed off and pulled the rope to the sign, dragging Snufkin with him. Snufkin left furrows in the ground, writhing and making it as difficult as he could, yelling for the Joxter to stop.

The Joxter shoved him against the sign and wrapped the rope around him, tying it off on the back, then put a final loop around Snufkin’s throat with the remaining length. When Snufkin called him something _very_ rude, he pulled the rope taut, until Snufkin regretted wasting his air on words.

After a minute, the Joxter relaxed the rope. Snufkin coughed and gasped for air, then slumped back against the sign, glaring at him.

“You’ve not called for help from anyone else, yet,” the Joxter said. Snufkin was silent. “Did you even think to, or are you just used to nobody helping you?”

The Joxter flopped bonelessly down next to Snufkin when he got no response and leaned against him, favoring his injured eye as he rested his head on Snufkin’s shoulder. Snufkin smelled nice, like earth and flowers and pipe smoke. “You weren’t supposed to go through life all alone,” he said, in no rush as he now had a captive audience. “You were so, so small when you were born, but running from the start. That’s how I knew you were a Snufkin. A Joxter would never be caught _running_ , and a Mymble wouldn’t be so solitary.

“But you were the most precious little thing, however odd you were, following me when it suited you, stealing away my hat or scarf to nest in. I was completely enamored of you. However… I just couldn’t decide what to _do_ with you. You were a mystery, like some rare wild bloom. I’d never seen a Snufkin child before, but there you were, my own little Snufkin.”

Snufkin’s severe frown relaxed as the Joxter talked. He’d thought it had been apathy or negligence that had orphaned him, but the Joxter spoke so fondly of him. He could use that to keep him from doing…. Whatever he was thinking. But then the Joxter kept talking, and Snufkin’s stomach fell.

“I could shape you into a perfect little toy -- a doll just for me to play with. You’d grow up loving me and anything I did to you. I doubt you recall, but I enjoyed dressing you up and putting your mamma’s makeup on you. You would sit so still, so trusting, letting me touch you and make you pretty. Then we’d disappear for days into the woods and ruin all that. You rarely spoke, but you’d leave little kisses on my nose and put flowers on me when I slept.” The Joxter traced idle figures across Snufkin’s torso, mind elsewhere, elsewhen. “And when you were curled up in my hat sleeping, I’d watch you and think of all the other things I wanted to do to you. Things a person could only do once. Children are so fragile.”

Snufkin leaned as much away as he could from the Joxter, disgust etched on his face. His own woodies came to mind, and anyone doing _anything_ like the Joxter hinted at to them sickened him. He couldn’t understand a mind like that, and he didn’t want to. He didn’t even want to pretend to if it helped him escape.

The Joxter licked his cheek, then laughed when Snufkin jerked his head. “I could have raised you like that, but….” he sighed. “That would be cruel, shaping you into something you weren't. I'm no Park Keeper. So I decided to go the other route, and have a bit of quick fun. Pluck you while you were still a bud.”

“I don’t want to hear anymore,” Snufkin said, breaking his silence. His stomach was all twisted up in revulsion, and his gaze was locked steadfastly on some middle distance.

“I took you to the river, far away from everyone else (or so I thought), so I could enjoy you at leisure --” “ _Stop it._ ” “I’d given you my hat to sleep in until I was ready and as I was relaxing, a Hemulen happened by. You know how Hemulens are. He just would not shut up, and he wouldn’t take the hint, and by the time I’d dealt with him, you had crept into his basket and fallen into the river.”

The Joxter looked at Snufkin, whose face was scrunched up like that could block out his words. He stroked his cheek. “I was going to do such lovely things to you, my dear. Pull you apart like petals on a flower. And I thought I’d never have the chance to even after finding you again, but here you are, all grown up. Healthy and hale and tough and trapped. There's no telling how long you'll last.”

“You’re really going to kill me?”

“Not right away, but yes.” The Joxter roused himself to crawl over Snufkin’s injured leg, earning a hiss of pain, and settled between his thighs. He hiked up Snufkin’s coat without ceremony. “You should try to enjoy these last hours.”

“Please don’t,” Snufkin said quietly. The Joxter had nothing more to say, so didn’t respond, but that small, resigned plea wasn’t falling on deaf ears. The nice thing about an adult Snufkin was he _understood_ what was happening. Wise as he’d seemed as a child, he’d had a child’s mind that couldn’t fathom all the wrongness in the situation, only pain. It was far more exciting when the violation ran deeper than the physical.

The Joxter tore Snufkin’s old, worn pants easily, and Snufkin’s free leg kicked and spasmed, searching for some purchase to get _away._ The Joxter caught his injured leg and pulled it up. Snufkin gave a thin cry, yanking desperately against the rope.

The Joxter pushed in fast, with no warning, and started up a punishingly rough pace. The bear trap rattled and Snufkin choked down any further cries of pain. He could try to deny the Joxter that, if nothing else.

This entire situation felt like some sort of dream, like maybe at the very last minute the Joxter would stop, and let him go, and explain it had all been just a bit of fun. It was hard to really believe that, though, as they’d gone far past any boundaries, and the Joxter was pushing more and it hurt in ways Snufkin had never known before. His body wasn’t made for this. It was like being torn open. The Joxter pulled the rope around Snufkin’s neck tight until he was gagging and writhing around him reflexively.

Then Snufkin was empty, the rope was slack. He gasped a lungful of air, and, before he’d even registered it, he’d vomited. There wasn't much to come up, but his body was in revolt, refusing to let him breathe either. His stomach clenched up tight as he bubbled up some final bit of acid, then he went slack, eyes and nose stinging. The reality was setting in.

Snufkin didn’t want to die. Not like this, knowing the Joxter would just go on and do this to someone else. He’d been planning to do it to another Snufkin -- he’d been planning to do it to a _child_ . Snufkin almost wished he had, so he didn’t have to think of the Joxter going back to the Mymble, getting letters from Moominpappa and sometimes responding, asking after Snufkin like he cared at all, sleeping in apple trees and _living_. Snufkin didn’t want to die bitter and afraid.

The Joxter was kissing the tears off of Snufkin’s face, humming a tuneless song to himself, whiskers and scruff tickling Snufkin’s cheeks and ears. He was being so gentle now, hands massaging Snufkin’s heaving sides, body warm like a heavy quilt against him. “Sh, my dear,” the Joxter murmured, using Snufkin’s scarf to wipe his mouth and chin. “Breathe slowly, or you’ll pass out. In, out, in, out….”

Snufkin focused on the Joxter’s words, tried to obey. The Joxter wanted him conscious to suffer, but Snufkin needed to _think_. All he could hear was his own whistling breath, all he could feel was the numb tingle in his lips and fingers. The Joxter held him close, comforted him with cooing and cuddles.

“Pappa,” Snufkin said, voice a muffled sob against the Joxter’s thick scarf.

“Yes, dear?”

“I don’t want to die.”

“I know. And that’s why this is so enjoyable.” The Joxter placed a kiss to Snufkin’s temple and held it there, savoring the slight trembling, the pleas finally spilling out. He’d caught Snufkin at a good age, old enough to put up some fight, but young enough to not be so spiteful as to spoil all his fun. He’d been worried when Snufkin hadn’t begged earlier.

“Please, pappa --”

“Mm?” the Joxter asked, grinding lazily against Snufkin’s belly.

“Let me go. What about Mymblemamma, or Moominpappa?”

“What about them?” The Joxter continued to rub against his squirming son, half-hard. He was torn between dealing with that or taking a nap.

“They… they’d not like this. What you’re doing to me. It’d upset them.”

“So I should definitely kill you so they never find out.” He’d only just fucked Snufkin. Maybe a nap would be better.

“No!” Snufkin jerked reflexively, and the Joxter tightened his grip so he could really enjoy his struggles. Sleep would be difficult, though, if Snufkin insisted on riling him up like this. “I won’t tell them.”

The Joxter was silent, letting Snufkin think he was considering the option, though he was truly wondering what Snufkin was getting at, bringing them into this.

“Oh! Do you think I care about them more than you? That their opinion of me might matter?”

Snufkin nodded, just slightly, blushing in silent anger at having been caught. He just wanted to be let go.

The Joxter pulled back so he could look at Snufkin, and one hand dropped down to his pocket. “Oh, no, my dear. I care about you very much, more than them. You’re like the ocean compared to ponds. Ponds are very nice to dip into, but I could just _sink_ into the ocean forever.” Snufkin inhaled sharply. “It’s just a shame that you’re more ephemeral than an ocean,” the Joxter finished, pulling his knife out of Snufkin’s soft stomach. His whiskers quivered at the smell of blood mixing with Snufkin’s fear.

“Joxter,” Snufkin gasped.

“No more pappa?” the Joxter asked even as he tore through Snufkin’s coat. The knife wound oozed rich and bright down to his bloodied groin. The Joxter pressed his finger against the new slit. His knife wasn’t large enough to go deep, made for cutting apples and whittling, not gutting Snufkins. But he could make do.

He worked his finger into the hole, ignoring Snufkin’s sudden shrieking, felt the twitching muscles, the warm pulse in time with Snufkin’s frantic heartbeat. The Joxter caught Snufkin’s mouth with his own, swallowing his cries as he fingered his wound. An ocean was an apt comparison, one that was deep and gentle and warm and mysterious. Not welcoming, though -- no ocean was ever welcoming like a Moomin or a Mymble. The Joxter didn’t need it welcoming to enjoy. He pulled himself away from Snufkin so he could examine his work.

The Joxter felt almost proud, like how he imagined Moominpappa felt when carving onion-shaped caps or making flower boxes. This was something he had had a hand in making -- and ruining. He liked the ruining, especially, the difference between a Joxter and a Moominpappa. If he had the artistic inclinations of his son, he would have wanted to capture this moment in some way, but the Joxter was a simple Joxter, so would immortalize him in memory, but that’s all. Nobody would know of this, and Snufkin wouldn't be missed for months. Unless someone told them.

Snufkin was pulling at his binds again. The trap rattled and his breath rattled alongside it as he strained at the signpost, trying to pull it up with no leverage. His skin was deathly pale, splashed with hot flushes of red that highlighted the faint markings inherited from the Joxter on his cheeks and nose. Snufkin was trying to curl in on himself, salvage some sense of privacy, but the Joxter had seen him and felt him deeper than he could hide. He was peeling back that mystery layer by layer.

When the Joxter knelt in front of him, he stilled, wide eyes riveted to the Joxter’s knife. “Could you do something for me, please?”

Snufkin’s eyes flickered up to the Joxter’s face. He gave no indication of agreement, but the Joxter continued anyway.

“Put your arms around me, kiss me and say ‘I love you, Pappa,’ like you did when you were little. Did you know that was one of the few things you would say? ‘I love you, Pappa’.” The Joxter laughed like it was a joke.

“My arms?” Snufkin asked. The Joxter smiled and nodded, closing and pocketing his knife. He knew Snufkin still wanted to fight, to escape, but wasn’t worried. He hadn’t managed to yet, after all, and as shock set in he couldn't even be subtle.

At Snufkin’s nod, the Joxter reached around him and untied him. Snufkin slumped forward against him, and the Joxter hugged him close. He took a moment to enjoy Snufkin pressed against him, numb arms clinging loosely to him in the tattered shreds of his coat, the shock making him shiver. It made him want to take him again, so weak and vulnerable, trying to hide against his pappa.

“Lovely,” the Joxter purred, hands carding through Snufkin’s hair before he tilted Snufkin’s head up. “My sweet little blossom. Now, what do you say?”

“I love you, Pappa,” Snufkin dutifully mimicked as he pressed a kiss to the Joxter’s nose. The words were worse than bile on his tongue.

“Go on.”

“I love you,” Snufkin repeated, and the Joxter closed his eyes, imagining the tiny creature Snufkin had been as a child. The child he still was, in so many ways. So innocent, despite his travels. Snufkin's didn't like people, so never got to know them. He probably didn't even realize someone _could_ do this to a person until now. The things Joxters loved to do but so rarely acted on. What a treat this was.

Snufkin grabbed his knife and almost made it to the Joxter’s throat before his attack was arrested by a strong grip.  He tried to free his arm as the Joxter twisted until he had to drop the knife. “Let me go!”

“Not until you stop trying to murder me.”

The Joxter’s statement so confused Snufkin that he stopped fighting for a moment, and the Joxter caught his wrists up together and tied them, this time, above his head, bending them painfully back over the sign and dragging Snufkin up higher. Snufkin’s entire body heaved as he fought against this new pose that stretched him out between sign and trap, belly exposed.

The Joxter picked up his knife. “I would love to just keep you here forever, dear,” he said. “But you won’t stop fighting, which is inconvenient, so --”

“Don’t --” he screamed as the Joxter used the hole he’d stabbed to work his knife under his skin and, in one clean motion, sliced upward. The skin parted like an eye-opening, revealing red muscle.

“Careful, Snufkin, don’t want to cut anything important.”

“What… what are you doing?”

"Dressing my catch, obviously,” the Joxter said as he settled on Snufkin’s legs. He worked his knife carefully into the firm muscle and fatty layers, sawing his way up to Snufkin’s sternum. It was difficult with this knife, and he slipped a few times, but it didn’t have to be pretty. “Did you think I’d kill you quickly when you’re still so _lively_?”

Snufkin was crying again, interspersed with pleas for the Joxter to stop and still struggling so hard, making it very difficult to work. The Joxter had to be cautious not to get too caught up in the blood and fear, though he wanted to just stab and stab and stab until Snufkin was cold and stiff.

He restrained himself -- something he would never have done for another person, so he hoped Snufkin appreciated -- and instead worked diligently until he had a nice long gash to work his fingers into. Gently, gently. The Joxter moaned, and it was echoed in pained tones. Snufkin was so warm and wet inside.

He brought his bloody hands up to grasp Snufkin's face and make him look at the Joxter.

“It hurts,” Snufkin whined, tears washing tracks through the blood.

“I know, dear. I know,” the Joxter murmured, planting butterfly wing kisses all over Snufkin's face, smearing blood like art. “But this is what you're for. You’re mine, remember? My own little Snufkin. You should be proud, you’re the only thing I’ve ever wanted to own before.”

Snufkin was unconvinced by his words, every thought overshadowed by pain and terror as the Joxter pried the muscle apart and slipped his knife inside.

Something heavy, slimy, and very wet spilled across Snufkin's legs, accompanied by a quick curse from the Joxter as he scrambled off of Snufkin to avoid the mess. Snufkin's head lolled down to regard the pile of viscera glistening in the sunlight. A little oath bug was stuck to it, legs kicking.

It looked like far too much to have been inside of him, looping intestines and meaty masses pouring out. They disappeared into his aching body like pipes and wires into a building.

The Joxter watched Snufkin’s face, attention rapt as Snufkin contemplated his own guts.

“See?” he cooed, reaching inside to cut away the pieces still attached, movements swift and careful so nothing got damaged. Now that he knew how Snufkin’s body took to his knife (and he took to it very well), it was easier work. “You're so eager to fall apart for me. Does it make you happy to make your pappa so happy? Because I am very happy right now.” He savored the warmth evaporating as he pulled the organs quickly away from Snufkin, who was still breathing and, miraculously,  conscious. He wouldn't last long, so the Joxter had to be quick. How inconvenient.

Snufkin wasn't fighting anymore, body weak and compliant. The Joxter straddled him and pressed him closed with his thighs, creating a nice, warm cavity to thrust into.

He stroked Snufkin's hair back and kissed him and complimented him, taking his time as he lazily pistoned his hips. It was a novel sensation, the squelching noises and humid, empty space that every instinct and nerve was saying should have had _something_ in it. If Snufkin had been loose and wet and easy like this before, the Joxter might have kept him longer. As things were now, he’d just savor the fact that the only thing left in his hollow belly would be the Joxter’s seed. Snufkins didn’t need anything more than that.

He looked at the tree behind Snufkin’s bent arms as he rutted, nose full of the stink of blood, the soft smells of Snufkin, the sour flavors of fear. The sunlight was golden and warm, and a few autumnal leaves drifted down. Such a calm, quiet day, cut through only by wheezing and the suction and slap of the Joxter’s movements. The Joxter let his attention drip back onto Snufkin, like molasses.

Snufkin was mouthing something that, after a moment puzzling, the Joxter decided was the word Moomin. He must have loved his Moomin something awful, for him to be Snufkin’s final thoughts. He hoped Snufkin’s dying dreams were pleasant, long, and full of those he loved and who loved him, as neither would ever see the other again. Such a tragedy.

The Joxter wasn't sure exactly when Snufkin died, only that he slowly realized Snufkin was cold and still when he became just this side of uncomfortably firm around the Joxter. He examined Snufkin's face. It was strained with the suffering of his final moments, etched and bruised under his wide, vacant eyes. He kissed Snufkin's waxy cheek, rolled off of him opposite his innards, and fell asleep. It had been a good idea to fuck him first. The Joxter would have such pleasant dreams.

The Joxter, after his nap, grabbed Snufkin's hat, found his harmonica and pipe, and set out for Moominvalley, unbothered by the bloom of blood drying on his coat and trousers. He has some very unfortunate news for them.


End file.
